


Gaëtan Gatian

by oonaseckar



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Awesome Howling Commandos, Erotomania, F/M, Gen, Hurt Steve Rogers, M/M, Music, Musicians, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, de Clerambault's syndrome, music business, weedy Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Steve -- weedy, pre-serum Steve, pre-growth spurt Steve -- is bereaved and lost after his mother dies.  He takes a job as a cook in an old folks' home, gets a little psychologically cramped and dark and off on the wrong track.  Music is what gets him through.  He gets really obsessed with bands.Really obsessed.He gets obsessed with a band called the Howling Commandos.The singer is one James 'Bucky' Barnes.Steve gets obsessed with him.Feels like he's in love with him.Starts to think that Bucky Barnes is in love withhim,, too.Even though they've never met...
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Tony Stark & Charles Xavier
Kudos: 12





	1. just another day

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title is the first names of Gaëtan Gatian de Clérambault, first identifier of de Clerambault's syndrome, otherwise known as erotomania. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaëtan_Gatian_de_Clérambault

"Steve, Mrs Carter wants two boiled eggs and brown bread for breakfast. She said to tell _Captain America_ to make sure he does them at least four minutes, she swears they were almost raw yesterday." The carer standing at the kitchen door laughed pleasantly, and hurried on. No time to linger.

"Yeah, yes, right," Steve said, rolling him eyes. Thanks, Peggy, he murmured inside his mind. Thanks a bunch! She wasn't his favorite out of the residents: liked to try to get under his skin. Steve was aware he wasn't the most ripped, masculine-looking creature on the planet. His growth spurt had been a long time coming, and in the end never arrived at all. Most of the staff called him Steve, but not Peggy. She knew that Steve liked comic books and superheroes, almost as much as he loved music. And had decided to gift him a _superhero name._ And even a superhero persona, embroidered and given more detail over time. She'd done little _drawings_ of his supposed spandex goddamn superhero outfit, for God's sake, and insisted on putting them on display in the communal living room. (Pretty good ones, too.)

A raw cough welled up from his lungs, and he leaned out the kitchen door to avoid germing up the breakfast trays... Hacking away, he felt like his throat was going to start bleeding.

"Time to give up the smokes, I think, Steve," advised the passing green-overalled laundry assistant, Milly. "Before they give _you_ up."

"You could be right," Steve replied, his eyes watering a bit.

"Course I'm right," Milly said, pausing and folding her arms, glad to stop and chat. "Gave up six years ago myself, and I feel better every day. What reason is there to keep smokin' em? They make you ill, they cost a bundle, they're bad for your skin..."

"They're a fire risk," Steve offered.

"Um yes," Milly conceded stumblingly, and moved swiftly on.

Mix, chop, knead, grind! Bake, boil, fry, stew! So many things for a cook to do!


	2. i cook with wine.  sometimes I even add it to the food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cooking pays the bills, for Steve. Music lights up the soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is W.C. Fields.

The residents were all right. Tottering past on long treks to the john, luring him into one-sided conversations about the good old days, dozing in the breakroom. 

And wobbling, leaning on walkers, to the dining room, without much interest in their meals. The job was a means to an end, but he didn't mind it. Most of the staff were good people, who cared about the residents. And if he wasn't passionate about cooking, he took pride in his own efficiency, and providing a varied, nutritious diet for the people who relied on him. He'd got the job because his dear old Ma had known one of the directors of the chain of homes. Now Ma was gone, and without the job she'd got him, he didn't know what he'd have done. 

Good job he'd already done basic food prep courses at a community college. Before Ma was gone, he'd thought of pro cooking school. But his money was earmarked for other things, now: the basic essentials of life. And beyond that, for his dreams.

It wasn't as if the job didn't take up every minute, more than full-time, working extra hours to fund his goals. With what his Ma had left, it was tough even to rent a tiny apartment, and the job brought in enough to feed himself and pay the bills provided he didn't develop any expensive tastes, like meat or high-speed internet. He couldn't do without his phone, because otherwise how was he going to listen to the Howling Commandos, now his laptop had died on him?

His phone package was expensive, though. Complex arithmetical problems worked themselves out in his head, as he tried to devise a way to afford to keep it and get himself a tablet too. But damn it, there was no way. Just no way. Unless he bought one second-hand? Just took the money out of his little savings stash? But that would mean losing interest, if he took some money out before the account regulations allowed.

That was money earmarked for art-school. And art-school, as a final destination, was almost as non-negotiable as getting to see Bucky Barnes, again.


	3. would anyone love me if I couldn't cook?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will cook for food. Will stalk for love. That's Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Nora Ephron.

Well, damn it. Some things you don't have any choice about. Some things are essential.

He almost burnt the pudding for lunch, a close call. Getting it out of the oven at top speed, he did manage to burn his fingers. It wasn't that he was a _bad_ cook: his mind was just elsewhere, half the time. On art, and music, and how great it was going to be when... well. It wasn't that he was the greatest cook, either, would never claim to be. But then, he couldn't have afforded cooking school without cutting into his funds for art-school. He'd done the bare minimum of food prep and production credits in community college and a local trade school, instead, enough to get employed by temp agencies. Extra income, over and above the regular gig, going towards his dreams.

But after a marathon washing up binge and mopping the kitchen floor, he was free -- for now. And out the door like a racing pigeon heading for home, heart light and swinging. And singing himself, a Howling Commandos song _of course,_ singing his heart out for the entertainment of passers-by.

Up on to his bike, jumping with more grace than usual given his strength level. (His physique still puny, despite stubborn persistent gym hours put in at the Y.) And aware of it, and aware it was because he felt good. _And_ aware he felt good, because he had the new song clip to go home to, and _that_ he owed that to Howling Commandos. But mostly, most of all to _him_ \-- to Bucky Barnes. Bucky the songwriter, the lead guitarist, graceful madman Bucky with the silver arm, the only one who could possibly understand. If only Steve could damn well _get_ to him.

And so on home, biking through the broken concrete and the weeds, brown leaves under his wheels. The dog walkers pulled their woolly poodle mutts out of his way, the air cold and dry but the sunlight strong. The best kind of day. His favorite kind of weather. Like vodka, this kind of day, the kind his nursing-student buddy Nat sometimes poured down him till his throat burned. It gave you a shock, refreshed, sharp, something to react _against_. Strong, against the cold.

Pity it didn't seem to work that way in the gym.


	4. a design for living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's personal life may be a little bare and austere. But the boy's got big plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Noel Coward. I think.

You come down from exhilaration, and then everything's grey. You don't even need drugs to do it, this he'd discovered in the course of his nineteen years. Into the communal garden, all grayness up the stairs to the second floor tenement apartment in a quietly despairing eyesore of a neighborhood, all, all grey. Bouncing his bike up the steps, not so gray. Got to keep going, keep your spirits up, boy. What can destroy you really? Get stronger and stronger and stronger. Some things are destined, Steve murmurs, to himself. And if they're meant to be, then no power or agency on this earth can stop them coming to pass, no hydra of a thousand spitting heads.

Bucky was the man. Steve knew it without a doubt. So nothing could destroy him, and he only needed to keep on getting stronger and more ready every day, inpreparation. Stronger inwardly, spiritually, he meant. Looking into the dull spotty mirror in his apartment's tiny bathroom, it was impossible not to acknowledge that his outer envelope was not going to change much, bar plastic surgery.

There wasn't all that much wrong with it, though. Lots of girls had told him he had a nice face. And he didn't mean just his old Ma, although her too, it was true. Not that a girl was what he was looking for.

He peered closer into the mirror. Yeah, it was true that he had kind of a big nose. Undeniable, that. Unarguable. Steve Rogers had a big nose, and that was a mater of fact, not open to argument. _Imposing_ , though, he told himself. His old Ma had always told him, you and Julius Caesar, Steve: both of you, a big, classical, _imposing_ nose. He didn't feel much like Caesar, looking at his nose. Maybe it would look smaller by comparison, if he wasn't such a weed, so skinny.

He'd begun to try to put on a bit of muscle, lately, though, it was true. Goddamn _ought_ to be able to, the amount of time he spent in the gym. He was beginning to get horrible muscle and joint aches from it, keeping him awake at nights. Pain and discomfort, and no bulging muscles on the horizon whatsoever! 

And short, into the bargain. As if _skinny_ weren't the outside of enough. But then, it was getting a little late for a growth spurt, at nineteen. He'd read up enough on it -- desperately, back when he was a kid. One more year -- eighteen months, two years at the outside limit -- and that was it, this would be his final adult height. Five foot five, stretching, on his tippy toes. On a good day.

But overall, none of it was too bad. So he told himself, anyhow. Pretty good, really. He could do a lot with it. Could be a lot worse. Anyway, since he was _destined_ to be Bucky Barnes' husband -- inexorably, inarguably -- he knew Bucky would love it, all of it. All of _Steve_. Nose included.

He would love what was inside of Steve, too.

Staring vacantly out of the window for a moment, Steve realized that he hadn't checked his mail, and ran down the steps to the communal pigeonholes in the foyer.

One letter from his bank, just a clinically uninteresting depressing statement, two letters from online buddies with a real-letter fetish, one in France and one in Argentina. The French guy, Jacques Dernier, wrote terrible incomprehensible English, but was always pleasantly upbeat and straightforward. Pepper in Argentina, though, was beginning to make Steve feel a little uncomfortable. Goths obsessed with tarot cards, Ouija boards and voodoo dolls were ten a penny, or used to be at least, five or ten years back when True Blood was still on the scifi channels. But with Pepper it was beginning to seem less of a seedy affectation and more of a … a symptom. Her letters seemed definitely... unbalanced, lately.


	5. a walkin' talkin' reason to live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Bruce Springsteen.

Then in the evening, Natasha dragged him out for a beer. Which he shouldn't have agreed to because _hello art-school funds,_ but oh hell.

Although it did give him a chance to show her the artwork for the new _Howling Commandos_ release, so they could analyse Bucky Barnes' outfit: to wit, tight turtleneck black sweater, wraparound dark wool skirt, eyeliner and Docs. Steve had nearly had a conniption at first sight of it. Bucky just looked _too_ good. It would only increase Steve's competition.

”Yeah,” Nat agreed, sucking on a beer bottle. “ _Almost_ too good. I’m beginning to worry about that boy…”

“Well, all those sluts who follow him around encourage him," Steve said, breezily. And only half meaning it. "Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with a little cross-dressing. _You’d_ end up with twice the wardrobe ’cause you could borrow a guy's clothes, for a start.”

“Yeah, and what if they borrow _yours_? And bust ’em at the seams?” Nat asked.

“No man is perfect,” Steve shrugged. “Except Bucky, of course.”

“Oh God help us, here we go,” Nat sighed. “Don’t start up, Steve, I don’t think my stomach can stand it. Don’t you think it’s time you gave up on this dream-world you're living in, get yourself a real live actual man?”

"Bucky Barnes _is_ a real live actual man,” Steve said in a soft quiet voice. “They don't come more _real_ , more _live_ or actual.”

Nat sighed, staring into space, then looked at him with a kind, but reproving face. “He’s out of your reach, Steve,” she tried to explain, gently but with a final tone. “You’re just hurting yourself with this craziness. How long has it been going on, eighteen months? We’ve _all_ had adolescent crushes in our time, sweetie, but this is too long. And you’re a grown man.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Steve replied blankly. He shut out any feeling over Nat's intrusion into his private world. His own reference to it had been casual. Nat usually accepted any such remarks that way, and just kidded along. She must have been concealing a loss of patience over the whole thing for a while.

Nat looked at Steve, whose blankness signaled that any words she chose to venture would only fall into a vacuum, a blank hole, never to reach their destination and be _truly_ heard. “Want another beer?” she enquired, resigned.

They watched tv together at Steve's place afterwards. Nat had missed a lot of her favorite Brazilian telenovela recently, because she'd cancelled her subscriptions due to spendthrift brokeness, and not having visited for a while. Steve spent most of it explaining plot developments to her at some length.


	6. Chapter 6

Clint, his room-mate, helpfully added surreal interjections, giving a head-spinning insight into the mind of a three-year-old and how adult drama must appear to little kids. Or, alternatively, to a toked-out stoner swigging Boone's Farm. Steve tolerated him, mostly because the help with the rent was sometimes the only thing keeping his college fund healthy . And because he suspected that Nat had a thing for him, and you just didn't cross Nat.

“He’s kissing that lady ’cause she’s hurt in an accident. Kiss it betterrrrr!” Clint drawled, slower than molasses.

“Bad man, Paul’s a bad man, _magic_. Makes money disappear!”

“He’s two people in one, they gave him a plastic face.” (That one being a character previously played by a different actor.)

Soap-opera time over, Nat had to get ready for work at the Kwikeemart, working on the checkout. It helped her get through her nursing studies, considering she got no help from her family. (And had spent half her childhood in a truly creepy sounding children’s home.)

Steve lounged on the bed with Clint, as Nat got into uniform, utterly uninhibited. It seemed like a magic trick each time she performed it to Steve, and probably to Clint too — the transformation from blowsy, earthy goddess Natasha, possessed of an excess of vitality and untampered-with natural beauty, into this smart helpful professional woman, beauty muted and flattened by careful conventional make-up, suddenly sober and responsible. She looked almost like someone you’d trust with your kids.

Steve wheeled his bike along with them, as Nat walked Clint to his animation evening class before going to work. (The only way to get him out of the house, and give Steve some peace, whatever little use he might get out of the class in his altered state.)


End file.
